Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
I walked straight to the sofa in the living room and picked up my smartphone from the side table.
The screen lit up white, then showed a black box with the words Service Disconnected across the middle.
“Is something wrong with the network?” I asked, standing by the cold fireplace.
Daniel sat down on the leather sofa and opened his iPad.
“I consolidated our family expenses this morning and canceled the extra mobile lines,” he said.
“How am I supposed to call my niece?”
“Chloe knows you’re safe here with me,” he said without looking up from his screen.
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Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.
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